


To Memory Now (I can't recall)

by wildforce71



Series: Powers 'Verse [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, I say really, Savoy, That's totally a tag in this fandom, Vignettes, it's all fiction, more tags as we go, so to speak, these ones really happened, this is real fiction though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildforce71/pseuds/wildforce71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes and short pieces set in the Powers 'Verse. Histories, back stories, and side stories that I couldn't fit into the main story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Young d'Artagnan

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Christmas, everyone. <3

Whenever they go to the town, Charles makes time to go to the convent and ask the nuns the date.

His father thinks it’s a harmless, if useless, habit. They are farm owners, after all; their lives are ruled by seasons, not months or days. The nuns are amused by the solemn boy, happily telling him the date. Sister Thérèse goes a step further, telling him saint’s days and important dates as well. The priest tells Charles that he always knows the date and Charles is free to come to him any time. Charles thanks him and scampers back to his father’s side. The priest’s emotions feel like slime inside his head, staining him with grime that takes days to clear away.

His father never asks why Charles is so interested in the date, and Charles never offers the information. His birthday is not celebrated in their home, because it’s also the day his mother died. Charles keeps track of the date to know when his birthday is, and how old he is.

Of course, he’s never missed his mother the way his father has. It’s hard to miss her when she’s so much a part of the house and lands. He doesn’t know what she looked like, but he’s always known what she felt like, and feeling is as much a part of his mental image of people as sight is.

Charles has turned sixteen when they start hearing reports of raids on other towns. His father spends a lot of time travelling around the area, talking to their neighbours, leaving Charles in charge on the farm. Tristan takes care of most of the work, of course. He’s been headman more than long enough to know how things are run.

Charles is crossing the yard on some errand one day when a horseman rides up, asking to use the well to refill his water skin. Charles draws up the bucket for him – the windlass tends to stick if it’s not done just right – and politely answers questions about the inn and the area, doing his best not to cringe. This man’s emotions are more tightly controlled than the priest’s, but they’re darker. There’s an anticipation in him that Charles instinctively dislikes.

As soon as the man has ridden off Charles shouts for Tristan, saddling his horse at the same time. His father’s not far away, and Charles means to have him home by evening.

The raiders come at dusk.

Charles and his father have returned, but only barely; the horses are still saddled, Tristan is still on his way in from the fields. Six men, bandanas across their faces, ride up and stop in a line across the gate of the yard.

Charles is aware that his father is talking, voice calm and level. He’s paying little attention to the words, though, focused on the feelings swirling around him. His father, solid just in front of him; Tristan and two of the other workers, hurrying in from the field; and six men filled with greed and lust for violence and impatience.

He’s moving before the shot’s fired, responding to the surge of blood lust, throwing his dagger underhand. The man falls from the horse gripping his shoulder, someone else shouts, and they’re fighting.

He counts the shots without thinking about it and charges forward after five, slapping horses and dragging at legs to bring the men down to the ground. Without the height advantage his father is a match for any two or three of them, the one who was injured in the shoulder is out of the fight anyway, and Charles is quick enough to avoid the others as they struggle to their feet and pull their swords. Tristan and the others arrive a moment later, piling in to the fight.

Within a couple of minutes four more of the men are down, leaving one circling Charles’ father. Charles, flush with his first real fight, goes to help while Tristan sees to tying up the others. The man snarls, but Charles isn’t afraid. Together, he and his father can handle anything.

It’s almost accidental in the end; he sees an opening and goes for it automatically. Darkness rushes over the man, extinguishing his life in a flash and washing over Charles before he can react.

It’s like falling from a tree, the year he was nine – the sudden weightlessness, the fluttering sensation – but it doesn’t end, it just goes on and on and on and at some point he stops feeling it, stops feeling anything, and that goes on and on and on until he screams just to hear it but he can’t, he can’t hear anything, he can’t see his hands or arms or eyelids, he can’t feel the strain in his throat or the air in his lungs or the pain when he thumps himself, pinches himself, kicks his own ankle, there’s nothing and nothing and nothing

 

nothing

 

 

nothing

 

 

nothing

 

 

nothing

 

 

nothing

 

 

for ever

 

and ever

 

and ever

 

 

and ever

 

 

and ever

 

 

until he’s home, in his own bed, with his mother’s rosary in his hand and his father praying beside him.

When his father asks, Charles will say _cold_ and _dark_ and _empty_ , as though those words mean anything, as though he can pin it down and make it real. He’ll tell his father he was alone, trapped, couldn’t find the way out, as though he’d tried, as though it was as easy as walking in the right direction.

The conversation will so distress his father that Charles will sleep, and wake, and pretend he remembers nothing. He’ll pretend he believes his father when he says he took a fever from a wound sustained in the fight. Two years from now, when it happens again and Charles begins to understand, he’ll still claim he remembers nothing, because the pain and helplessness raging in his father will be too much to bear.

It won’t be until years after that, surrounded by the men who’ll become his family, that Charles will try to explain this again.

All of that is in the future, though. For now, Charles lies in his bed, in the house he’s spent all his life in, feeling his mother’s presence in her rosary and listening to his father’s prayers rise and fall. He is at peace.


	2. Young Athos (Olivier)

Olivier is eight the first time it happens, though he doesn’t figure it out until years later.

He and Thomas are playing in the grounds of the estate. They’re supposed to stay in view of the house, but there was a bird Thomas _had_ to chase, and a flower he _had_ to pick, and a butterfly he _had_ to follow. Olivier loves his brother, so he follows with only the occasional protest.

It’s mostly the fault of the root that trips him up. Although, if the rock hadn’t been just _there_ , he would have been fine. Dizzy and bleeding from the head, he tries to take them back home, but he can’t tell which direction they’re going, where they’ve been or even up from down. Thomas tries to help, but being pulled along makes Olivier so ill he throws up and when Thomas lets go he immediately loses track of him.

Eventually he finds the ground pressed against his side. He should stand, he thinks blearily, but he can’t find ‘up’ and there’s darkness pressing in on him. Someone’s crying, somewhere nearby, and he should probably do something about that, but he can’t summon the energy to do it.

He closes his eyes to sobbing.

He opens his eyes to silence. It’s some time later, he can tell from the shadows. They’re going to be late home, he thinks uneasily. Mama hates that; she says it’s terribly rude.

His head doesn’t hurt any more. When he touches it, his fingers come away covered in tacky, half dry blood. He stares at it for a long time before pushing to his feet. There’s no lightheadedness, nothing. He feels perfectly fine.

There’s no sign of Thomas. He searches around for a while, calling, increasingly fretful. Eventually he gives up and turns towards home. He’ll have to get help.

Halfway home, feet dragging, he looks up as a horse thunders towards him. His father swings down out of the saddle and falls to his knees beside him. “Olivier!”

“I can’t find Thomas,” Olivier says, and bursts into tears.

His father calms him down, running anxious fingers across his head. “Olivier, where are you hurt?”

“On my head. But it doesn’t hurt now.”

He searches again, pushing fingers through the pool of blood. “There’s nothing – are you sure you were hurt?”

“It hurt really bad. And I was sick.”

“Thomas said,” his father says distractedly, “but there’s no injury here.”

Olivier sniffles hard. “Thomas?”

His father finally seems to realise what’s happening; he sits back on his heels, sighing. “Thomas came home, Olivier. He was very upset; he said you’d hurt yourself, that you fell down and wouldn’t get up again.”

“I don’t remember falling,” Olivier says, confused. “I just closed my eyes and then I opened them and Thomas was gone.” And, overcome, he bursts into tears again.

His father calms him down. His father gets a water skin from his horse and washes his face thoroughly. His father lifts him onto the horse and rides home holding him tightly.

He stops a short distance from the house. “Olivier, listen to me and don’t ask questions,” he says quietly. “Don’t tell anyone you were hurt. You were just stunned when you fell; Thomas must have imagined the blood. Do you understand?”

“No,” he says in confusion.

“Tell me what you’ll say.”

Olivier repeats it back without understanding any of it, and he tells it to everyone who asks, and for years he believes it. It’s not until much later that he understands why his father was so insistent, and later again that he shares it with anyone. For now he nestles in his father’s arms and rides towards the house where Mama and Thomas are waiting for him.


	3. Savoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sick and miserable today, so you get this chapter even though it's not the next one due. Some brief body horror.

It was cold.

Aramis knew it was cold, but he couldn't really feel it anymore. That was a bad sign, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He was heavy, he was floating, and he couldn't move.

Bertram was dead.

Aramis had killed him.

That wasn't true. He knew it wasn't, when he thought about it. But Bertram had been breathing when Aramis found him, the only one of the eighteen Musketeers strewn about showing any sign of life. Aramis knew it was too late – there was no compulsion to help him, for one thing – but as long as he held on, as long as he kept concentrating, Bertram kept breathing. And it was a little like not being alone.

Marsac had healed his injury, but not quite properly. He never got other people's Abilities right the first time, he always needed practise, and he'd never had any with Aramis' Ability. Stupid; they should have let him practise. It would have been useful, to have more than one Healer in the garrison.

He'd let go of Bertram.

He hadn't, really; he'd fallen asleep, or lost consciousness, he still wasn't sure which, and by the time he woke Bertram was cold and stiff. He'd had to wrench his hands free of the thin layer of ice. He couldn't feel that, either, though he'd left layers of skin behind. They were mostly frozen over now, too.

Savoy hadn't returned. He didn't know why. They thought everyone was dead, but surely, even for enemy dead, leaving them out here alone in the cold and snow...

A raven cawed, somewhere nearby. Aramis tilted his head slowly to look. He'd given up on trying to keep the birds away. He'd even given up weeping as he watched; there was still a crumb of horror, somewhere deep inside, but he didn't feel it anymore, not really. His brothers were long gone.

The raven was staring at him.

Aramis stared back.

The bird darted for his face and Aramis recoiled stiffly, trying to get an arm up to fend it off. His hand brushed over its' feathers and he shuddered in revulsion. The bird hopped back a pace or two, eyed him again, and went for easier prey. Aramis shuddered again; the bird knew he wasn't going anywhere. It was content to wait, and come back for him later.

Moving very stiffly, he rolled onto his back and did his best to pray.

He thought he was dreaming. The birds cawed; the branches cracked in the cold. There was no other noise here, nothing. But he could hear voices, horses. Shouts and panic.

Someone touched his arm, touched skin through the torn material; he cried out as his overtaxed Ability tried to latch on. Whoever it was pulled away, cursing, and returned a moment later swaddled in leather, enough to block him.

There were sounds overhead. He recognised that they were _words_ , but that was as close as he could get; the meanings escaped him totally. He couldn’t even follow the tone. He thought vaguely that maybe he knew this person, there was something familiar, but nothing that made sense.

Oh, they were moving…

There was a fire, still small but blazing fiercely. Aramis lurched out of the arms around him, almost into the flames. At least two people caught him, holding him back, and he _whined_. He wanted that heat, needed it. Enough of his mind remained to know he was dangerously close to freezing to death.

He couldn’t fight off the restraining hands, but a blanket appeared from somewhere, and by the time he’d figured that out he was sitting in someone’s lap by the fire. Arms were wrapped around him, hands rubbing briskly at his arms through the blanket.

For a couple of minutes, it was nice. Then the pain started, pins and needles burning unbearably up and down his arms. He groaned, trying to pull away, but he couldn’t; the arms held tight, continuing to move. There were more _words_ , and while he still couldn’t follow them he thought the tone was _apology_.

The pain in his arms peaked and then started to fade, and the arms around him moved to his legs.

He might have slept, a little, after the pain was all done. Someone woke him every so often with a cup of something warm and liquid. After a while he stopped waking up all the way, just drank and sank back into sleep without rousing properly. There were always arms around him, the blanket and the fire, and he still didn’t know who was there but he knew he was safe.

He woke some time later in sunlight. He lay still for a while, knowing instinctively that when he moved there'd be pain, knowing that he was safe here.

Someone gripped his arms gently, easing him into a sitting position. There was a stream of _words_ that slowly resolved themselves into the kind of narration one usually gave a patient who couldn't hear - _just going to sit you up here, drink a little of this, that's good, get you warm again_ \- and after a while he put together the voice and the hands he could see and came up with _Porthos._

He tried to say the name and produced a thick, gravelly sound.

Silence for a moment, and then Porthos shifted, coming into his field of vision. "You awake now?" he asked gently, watching him.

Aramis tried to say _not sure_ and produced the same noise.

"Cold's got in your lungs, the doctor says," Porthos continued, still watching him. "Might be a while 'fore you can clear it out. Take it easy. You know who I am?"

He shaped _Porthos_ , watching the other man read it off his lips.

"Good. What d'you remember? Know where you are?"

 _Savoy_. He closed his eyes, gripping Porthos' arm tightly.

"All right," Porthos murmured gently. "One more question, that's all. Ready? Who attacked you?"

_Savoy._

Porthos frowned, but he nodded. "All right. Get some sleep."

Now that he'd woken, his sleep was uneasy and fitful. Birds cawed, and he woke. Men moved around or spoke overhead, and he woke. Everything was silent, and he woke.

Porthos came back, after a while, to sit beside him. Aramis curled shamelessly around him. Now that he wasn’t so cold, he could feel how cold he was, and he knew Porthos wouldn’t push him off.

“We can stay here tonight, but we have to move on tomorrow. Think you can?”

Aramis thought about it, carefully, knowing Porthos would let him take his time and believe him when he answered. “I don’t know if I can sit a horse. I don’t know if I can _sit_. But I’m ready to be away from here.”

“You should eat. We’ve been pouring broth down your throat, but there’s only so much good that’s going to do. I thought you’d killed yourself for a bit there.”

There was no accusation in his tone, but Aramis flinched anyway. “I didn’t mean –“ He shook his head, because that was a lie and he couldn’t lie to Porthos. “It wasn’t deliberate.”

Porthos nodded neutrally. “You tore up your hands.”

Aramis looked down at them, realising for the first time they were bandaged. “I froze to Bertram,” he said without thinking.

Porthos blanched, but he recovered quickly. “They’ll heal, doctor says. You’ll shoot again. Might take a while, though.”

Aramis did not say _I’ll never shoot again_ because even though the thought filled him with horror now, he knew it probably wouldn’t always.

“Can you talk to the captain? He needs to know what happened.”

“Yes. Wait; I need to sit up.”

Porthos got him sitting up, and then went away, and then came back with the captain. Aramis carefully explained events as he knew them. Treville looked old when he sat down, and he looked older by the time Aramis finished his story.

“Marsac left you here?” Porthos demanded.

“He saved my life,” Aramis said again. It was the only thing he’d say. Treville was carrying Marsac’s pauldron, fiddling endlessly with the buckle.

“We’ll travel tomorrow,” Treville told him, heaving himself to his feet. “Porthos, make sure he has whatever he needs.”

Porthos brought him food, small amounts often, and drink whenever he so much as looked thirsty, and made sure he kept the blanket on and stayed near the fire. He listened when Aramis wanted to talk, stayed silent when he didn’t, and redirected anyone else who came near them. When it grew dark he lay down beside Aramis, arms wrapped around him, and coaxed him to try and sleep.

Aramis tried, for his sake, but his dreams were full of frozen Musketeers and watchful birds. He lay awake, tucked against Porthos’ side, and watched the fire until sunrise.


	4. Young Porthos

Porthos can never remember the first time he Faded.

He doesn’t remember the first time he saw Flea run through a wall, either; it was just always there, as much a part of her as her hair or her sharp tongue. Charon never manifested any Ability, but that didn’t matter to Porthos; Charon was by far the best at planning their little raids, keeping them beneath the notice of anyone who might care, making sure they were only nuisances, not worth chasing down.

He does remember – vividly – the first time he really understood the Fade, really knew how useful it could be. Flea had vanished through a wall when the job went wrong; Charon swung out a window, but the building’s owner got there ahead of Porthos, blocking his path. Porthos thought desperately _don’t see me don’t see me don’t see me_ and the man blinked, swinging his head to look around, cursing loudly.

Porthos stood exactly where he was for ten minutes while the man searched around the room; then he walked, very slowly and carefully, to the door. It creaked when he opened it; the man never once looked up, still poking a heap of sacks in disgust. 

Porthos had gently closed the door, stood for a moment, and then run all the way back to the Court still in the Fade. He nearly gave Flea a heart attack when he reappeared in their room, stumbling, completely terrified by what had happened.

It had never been like that before. Only people looking past him in crowds, not noticing when he pickpocketed them. Never someone actively looking for him and simply not seeing.

He makes Flea and Charon practise with him, but no matter how hard they try or what he does they can’t see him until he allows them to. Charon doesn’t even notice when Porthos draws his dagger out of his sheath; he absently shifts his belt to give Porthos better access, still insisting to Flea that Porthos _can’t_ be here, they’d have noticed by now.

He practises on other people. No one ever notices.

They develop a routine. Flea slips into the buildings and draws back locks, opens windows; Porthos goes in and takes whatever they’re after. Charon cases places for them and stands guard while they’re inside, and he always knows the right fence for everything.

Porthos learns as he goes. Dogs can’t see him, but they usually get uneasy if he stays too long. Cats can’t see him but it doesn’t take them any length to get annoyed at him. There’s a child, once, who stares solemnly at him the whole time, and once a man comes hurrying down from the upper floor only to stare, puzzled, at the room. Much later, Porthos realises they must have had Abilities too, must have sensed him in some way that doesn’t involve the normal senses.

He wonders, sometimes, if his mother had an Ability, or his long-distant father. They don’t always run in families, but it’s likely children will follow parents. There’s a good chance one of them had an Ability of some kind, though if it was his mother it was nothing visible or useful.

Flea never wonders about her parents. He asks her once and gets a blank look. She doesn’t see the point in worrying about the past or the future; Flea lives only in the moment. Charon says he knew his father, but Porthos is never quite sure whether he believes him or not. Charon likes to say things.

It doesn’t really matter, he supposes. This life, here in the Court, is enough. With Flea and Charon at his side, there’s nothing he can’t do. He can’t imagine wanting more than this.


	5. Young Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm marking this as complete for now, but there may be more at a later date.

Aramis doesn’t remember the first time, but he remembers the first time it harmed him.

His mother’s had headaches all his life; she always says that a hug from him makes her feel better than any amount of herbs. He always knows when his father’s gout is bad, though they don’t hug. When the maid has toothache he follows her around all day, ‘helping’ until he finds a reason to touch her long enough to help.

There are only a couple of children in the town that his father allows him to play with. Aramis usually nods obediently and plays with whoever he wants when his father’s back is turned. His mother smiles, kisses his cheek and tells him not to be caught.

They’re playing by the river, him and Joseph – Aramis is perhaps eight years old – when Joseph slips. He slides down the bank, strikes a rock and lies still. A flare of – _something_ – runs through Aramis, an insistent pull. _Here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here…_

He skids down the slope, almost falling himself, and presses both hands to Joseph’s face.

He wakes up, a lot later. Joseph’s sitting beside him, arms wrapped around himself, shivering in the evening cold. There’s blood in his hair, but he’s not hurt.

Aramis goes home. He eats, he sleeps. The next morning he’s fine again.

Joseph’s mother comes to the house.

Aramis is called in to talk to her. His own mother is careful and understanding as she tries to coax the story from him, but since he doesn’t know what happened, there’s not much he can say. _Joseph fell, I wanted to help him, I fell asleep. When he woke up, he was fine._

His mother talks Joseph's mother into believing that the boys just slipped, got a little scratched up. She leaves, staring at Aramis until she can't see him any more. His mother keeps him close to the house for a long time after that, and when he's allowed out again Joseph avoids him deliberately. Whatever's been said about him, the other children start avoiding him as well, and there are whispers and murmurs in the village.

His mother tells him to ignore them. His father never mentions them at all. But they start preparing him for seminary soon after that. And the next time his mother has a headache, she refuses his hug.


End file.
